Monthly Archives: February 2012

Over the years I’ve noticed that people think the life of a stripper is shimmering with ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ glamour and lashings of debaucherous activities. The goggles of the average punter are both beer drenched AND rose tinted. When a fat, smelly, balding man tells me I must really enjoy teasing him, I think to myself it must be wonderful to be out there in the world, functioning with that level of delusion. They think that we are so sexually charged that we’ll fuck anything. To them, our lives must be a blurry patchwork of promiscuous sex, sequins, smudged mascara, promiscuity, and mountains of cocaine.

Although this may be the case for some, it is not for me. I won’t be coy about it. I have my moments. I adore drugs. We’ve had some good times. Rarely any bad. They’re like the friend that I might not speak to for 6 months, but when we see each other again, it’s as if no time has passed at all. We understand each other. We love each other’s company. Sometimes we spend hours enjoying the comfortable silence of old friends. Sometimes we make ze partee.

Contrary to customer belief, I don’t go back to the hotel rooms of guys after my 11 hour shift, smoke a crack pipe and party on Wayne. Party on Garth. More often than not, my drug intake has been characterised by tracksuit pants, joints and an early onset diabetes inducing amount of confectionary. In the early days back home, hallucinogens and forest parties were our weekend ritual. Or in more manic times, tracksuit pants, my best friend, a plate of cocaine, broom, mop, chemicals and a very satisfying 4-6 hours of house cleaning. You can justify anything when you’re going through a break up, and I do love a clean house.

Tonight I noted that my evening’s activity may just be enough to dispel the myth of the sex, drugs and sparkle tassle joy luck good time life of a stripper.

Insert “disturbing content” warning here.

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Every couple of months, my dog Chockie has a stinky but. It’s not the kind of smell you can ignore. An additional open door or window will not suffice. If you want revenge on someone, you could conceal a bag of prawn heads in their bedroom air vent, or you could lend them my dog. Gooby squid left in the bin over a few warm days, stewing in it’s own thickening juices, is the most accurate description I can give you.

My boyfriend likes to say it smells like “off box”. Could it be true? Is there really a level of personal hygiene out there that is so low or is it an urban myth? I feel like it must just be post footy training locker room banter. I kind of want to ask him to elaborate and dispel the myth. But I just can’t do it. No one wants to think about their boyfriend’s face buried in another girl’s vagina. Particularly if the cha cha smells like the your dog’s arsehole. That’s just weird and gross. Note to self, ask Bennie St boys to clarify. Urban myth or horrific fact?

Where normal dogs will poo or drag their but across the ground to mark their territory and leave their scent, my poor Chocorette dog’s anal glands get blocked. After spending a ridiculous amount of money getting the vet to unblock them, I learnt how to do it myself.

And so earlier tonight, as I had my latex gloved, vaseline lubricated finger positioned at 10 o’clock, up my dog’s but hole, expressing her anal glands into a piece of folded toilet paper, I thought to myself “If those men could see me now!”